


Meet the Whitlys

by VoidGhost



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Crossover, Discorporation (Good Omens), Guardian Angels, M/M, Malcolm's Healing Time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22043188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidGhost/pseuds/VoidGhost
Summary: One second, he is driving his Bentley to the bookshop, tapping his fingers involuntarily to the Velvet Underground, with vocals by Freddie Mercury. He should’ve pocketed the tape before a fortnite flew by, but it slipped his mind.The next second, as he was speeding 90mph over central London’s speed limit, he was rocketed out of his seat and stumbled across a dank room. At the speed he was flung, he tripped over his own feet, flipped into a roll, and came to rest ass-over-tea-kettle on the opposing wall.He groaned out, more pissed and confused than he’s been in his long life, “What the FUCK?”“I could ask the same thing.”OR,Crowley ends up in another universe with a serial killer who looks like his angel.Alternatively, Malcolm is struggling to come to terms with this angel who bares a resemblance to his father.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Malcolm Bright, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 18
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is purely self indulgent and all i want is for malcolm & fam to move on from their shitty dad

One second, he is driving his Bentley to the bookshop, tapping his fingers involuntarily to the  _ Velvet Underground _ , with vocals by Freddie Mercury. He should’ve pocketed the tape before a fortnite flew by, but it slipped his mind. 

The next second, as he was speeding 90mph over central London’s speed limit, he was rocketed out of his seat and stumbled across a dank room. At the speed he was flung, he tripped over his own feet, flipped into a roll, and came to rest ass-over-tea-kettle on the opposing wall. 

He groaned out, more pissed and confused than he’s been in his long life, “What the  _ FUCK? _ ”

“I could ask the same thing.” 

Crowley scrambled to a defensive crouch and faced the voice. What he saw made him pause. 

There was a figure, an older man, who wore a fairly unremarkable cardigan, reading a textbook with a pair of reading glasses. Crowley thought the man reminded him of Aziraphale, just with an untamed beard and wildly curly hair - then it struck him that this  _ was  _ Aziraphale. Or at least, the spitting image of him. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked without a thought. 

The man cocked his head. He seemed remarkably calm for someone who had a person just appear in his room. “Who? Sounds biblical.” 

_ American?  _ Crowley thought. He stood up. “Where am I?”

He finally looked around this room and found,  _ oh _ , it’s not a bedroom or an office. It’s a prison cell. There’s an obvious heavy door with reinforced glass windows, bland cement walls with only two high windows with barely any light coming through, and the tether that’s keeping the only occupant of this cell within a limited space. 

“I believe you’re in my cell,” The man said. He closed the textbook and placed it on a desk, which unnerved Crowley further to see sketches of anatomy pinned above it. The prisoner stood up, peering at Crowley through his reading glasses. Contemplative. “Now, am I hallucinating or did a man just appear out of thin air?”

“Hallucinating, definitely,” Crowley easily lied. Maybe this guy is crazy enough to let it slide. He began pacing around the room, examining the windows, nearly catching the sight of the security guard and quickly ducking out of the way. The entire time, the man watched him with undeniable scrutiny. It made Crowley uneasy - more uneasy than when he had to check in down in Hell. At least that was familiar territory. Now, it was like he was thrown in a completely different universe, with an Aziraphale lookalike that might also be a criminal. 

“I’ve never hallucinated before,” The man mused. “I think my head has been very clear this last decade. But maybe my imprisonment is getting to me.” 

“Yeah. That.” With a well-placed miracle, he could unlock the heavy door. But then, where would that leave him? He couldn’t sense Aziraphale anywhere on Earth right now, which has him wondering if he’s even on the same Earth as before. Ugh. Multiverse. Not one of his, unfortunately.

“What kind of hallucination are you?” The man asked. “A manifestation of my fears, perhaps? One of my past victims? Maybe a demon.” 

“Oh, demon, for sure.” Crowley tilted his sunglasses down to show his eyes. Sudden uncertainty pass over the man’s face, and he took a step back. 

“Oh.” 

The man fell silent for now. Crowley took this as an opportunity to assess his next step. Usually, he’d go to Aziraphale if something like this happened, but he’d never been without his angel before. This was all on him. 

He didn’t have much time to think about it when the door at the end of the hall opened. Another figure made their way towards the cell, and Crowley jumped out of sight. He flattened himself into a corner and pressed a finger to his lips. The man was watching him with knitted eyebrows, but as he glanced down the hall, he brightened. 

The door opened. Crowley performed a small glamor to make himself even less noticeable, and it worked like a charm. 

A younger man stepped into the cell, dressed primly, but his shoulders were stiff as he regarded the prisoner. The man did not immediately mention Crowley’s presence, but he appeared too enlightened by this visitor. 

“Malcolm,” The man greeted warmly. 

“Dr. Whitly,” The visitor said, stiff. Crowley glanced at the anatomy sketches on the wall. The name did not ring a bell. 

“What’s brought you here, son?” Dr. Whitly asked. “Another murder, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” Malcolm said. Crowley was still processing the mention of murder that he almost missed the next part: “People have been disappearing all over the city. Absolutely no trace left of them.” 

“You must be desperate if you’re coming to me,” Dr. Whitly said. 

“Unfortunately,” Malcolm agreed. “We’re stumped. There’s no evidence to link it to the Junkyard Killer. No evidence linking to anyone at all.”

“Odd things are afoot,” Dr. Whitly said. His eyes shifted to Crowley’s hiding spot. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Ask who--” Malcolm turned to look, and stumbled back as he took notice of Crowley. “Who--Who is that?!” 

Dr. Whitly snapped his fingers. “I knew I wasn’t hallucinating.” 

“No no no! I am totally a hallucination! Mass hallucination is a thing, right?” Crowley crept from his corner with his hands up in an attempt to keep the peace. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the security guard start to make his way to the door. Crowley snapped his fingers. The guard collapsed just outside the room, dreaming peacefully. 

“Hallucinations don’t do  _ that _ ,” Malcolm said, backing away, clearly trying to decide between flight or fight. 

“I’ll show you what else I can do unless you  _ shut up _ ,” Crowley threatened. He didn’t much care for harming humans, but he’ll use his words to get what he wants. 

Whatever fear Malcolm had still lingered, but it was like Crowley’s threat had the opposite effect. Malcolm kept the distance between them, but he appeared much like Dr. Whitly; calm, knowing, thoughtful. Like Crowley had somehow revealed more about himself than he meant to. 

“Note taken,” Malcolm said. 

“...Right,” Crowley said, unused to humans not being afraid of him. “What was that about humans disappearing?” 

Malcolm and Dr. Whitly seemed to exchange a knowing look that Crowley had trouble reading. Digging into their auras, he saw the doctor had a soul that didn’t look anything like Aziraphale. It was black and withered, pulsing like a crushed heart, but running purely on raw emotion. A soul marked by Hell. Malcolm’s was more damaged than corrupt, still clinging onto hope, but it had the potential to crumple like the doctor’s. So similar, like….oh. Of course, they’re father and son. 

“Why would you want to know?” Malcolm asked. 

“Maybe I have some outsider knowledge,” Crowley tempted. He should be good at this, he’s been doing it for six thousand years. 

Malcolm appeared tempted. But the trained cops were always harder to bait. “Who are you?” 

“Someone who could help you, if you help me,” Crowley said. Not technically a lie, but he’d do whatever he needed to do to get back home to Aziraphale. 

Malcolm crossed his arms, and Crowley had the feeling he was caught. “You’re lying. You’ve been lying this whole time. Who exactly are you, and why are you in Dr. Whitly’s cell?” 

At this point, Crowley was growing irritated. His words blended into a hiss, “Fine. You want honessty?” Crowley ripped his sunglasses from his face and tossed them aside, glaring at Malcolm with the full effect. He took menacing steps forward, enjoying the way Malcolm’s face twisted into unease. “I’m the ssserpent who tempted Eve into eating that apple. I’m the one who brought Sin upon the humans. I’m a demon of Hell. And one day, I might just be the one to drag your father Down Below.” He nodded towards Dr. Whitly, who’s face became impassive, impossible to read. 

Malcolm frowned, tight-lipped. “He’s not my father.” 

Crowley frowned. He glanced again at their auras, from Malcolm, to Dr. Whitly. “No, I got that part right.” 

Malcolm let out an exasperated sigh. “No. He’s not my father. He’s a murderer, a  _ serial killer _ . I refuse to have any connections with him.” 

“Now that’s just rude,” Dr. Whitly commented. 

Crowley lifted a single brow. He pointed a thumb to the doctor. “Your dad’s a serial killer?”

Malcolm’s jaw set as Crowley realized his mistake. Malcolm stepped forward into Crowley’s space until he was forced to step backwards, Malcolm matching his pace. 

“I don’t know if you’re really a demon,” Malcolm began, lifting a finger to poke harshly into Crowley’s chest. “But you’re really,  _ really shit  _ at your job--” 

Then, just as suddenly as Crowley appeared, Malcolm disappeared into thin air. 

There was a pause. Crowley froze in place as Dr. Whitly watched, both of them fixated on the spot where Malcolm disappeared. Dimly, Crowley registered it as the vague place where he had originally appeared. 

There was silence. Then, from Dr. Whitly, “What did you do to Malcolm?”

His voice was quiet and somber, more serious than Crowly had heard since he first stumbled into this cell. All at once, he became intimately aware that he was sharing a room with, apparently, a renowned serial killer. One that looked exactly like his angel. 

If Crowley silently prayed for the first time in many decades, then that was his secret to keep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At precisely 9:54am, Aziraphale felt Crowley’s approaching presence ripple in their plane of existence before disappearing altogether. The lack of it made him stare awkwardly at a wall while he tried to search out with his essence, trying to find that unwavering force of love he’d grown used to like a background melody, only to find that for the first time in six thousand years, he couldn’t feel it at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is all entirely unedited. not sure how the update schedule will be either. i have a few chapters prewritten but im starting to fall into old unfinished fics. this might be updated while im working on those. idk, we'll find out lmao.   
> hope yall enjoy my ridiculous crossover fic!

Aziraphale had been having an odd morning. 

At precisely 9:54am, he felt Crowley’s approaching presence ripple in their plane of existence before disappearing altogether. The lack of it made him stare awkwardly at a wall while he tried to search out with his essence, trying to find that unwavering force of love he’d grown used to like a background melody, only to find that for the first time in six thousand years, he couldn’t feel it at all. 

It was only a few seconds later that an ear-splitting  _ crash!  _ erupted out on the street just outside his shop. 

Aziraphale rushed out to see Crowley’s dear Bentley crumpled in an intersection, flipped onto its hood and sitting in a pool of broken glass. Two other cars were in rough shape, so Aziraphale could only assume that the Bentley had roared through the intersection, but wasn’t fast enough to avoid the two oncoming cars. 

“Oh, dear.” Sirens blared in the distance. A few civilians had taken the role of directing traffic, so with a small miracle, Aziraphale slipped through unseen. His human heart beat rapidly in his throat, convinced that he would find Crowley’s mangled body in the driver’s seat - surely just discorporated, but the lack of the demon’s aura unnerved Aziraphale. 

He stepped over the shards of broken glass and crouched down, waiting to see the damage - only to see nothing. It was an empty car. 

Aziraphale let out a slow breath. So Crowley wasn’t discorporated, but that begged the question: where on Earth  _ was he? _

Opting to look for answers elsewhere, he hurried back to his bookshop. The moment he stepped inside, the hair on his arms raised. He froze. 

There was something like static in the air, surely a type of magic, but neither holy or demonic. Aziraphale followed it, and found it at the center of his bookshop. The runic circle to Heaven. 

Hastily, Aziraphale snapped his fingers to lock the doors and shut the blinds. He ripped the carpet away, to reveal the circle as it glowed. He wondered if someone was trying to contact him, but before Aziraphale could do something about it, it flashed with a light so brightly it nearly blinded him. 

Blinking the spots from his eyes, he registered a  _ thud _ as something else appeared in his bookshop. Its aura was unfamiliar, definitely human, but no normal human could just appear in his bookshop. Aziraphale armed himself with a heavy book. 

The figure in the circle appeared dazed. It seemed male, well-dressed, and its aura - oh dear. It could use some guidance. Azirpahale hoped that was all it came here for. 

The man stood up, holding his head, then took notice of Aziraphale. He didn’t say anything, just stared with something like disbelief. 

“I don’t know who you are,” Aziraphale said. “But you need to go back to wherever you came from.” 

The man opened his mouth and closed it, uncertain. Then, he asked, hesitantly, “...Dr. Whitly?”

Aziraphale cocked his head. He hadn’t used that as an alias before, but he’s been through so many in all his years on earth. “...No?” When the man didn’t respond, Aziraphale went forth with introductions. “Mr. Fell, actually. And you are?”

The man appeared a little stunned as he replied automatically, “Malcolm Bright.” 

“Malcolm,” Aziraphale repeated. “Do you mind telling me how exactly you ended up in my shop?” 

Malcolm seemed to have regained some of his senses. He schooled his expression and kept his outward appearance as much more calm than he truly was. It made Aziraphale wonder what the poor kid has been through. 

“Uh, well, Mr. Fell--” 

“Oh, how about I put on some tea?” Aziraphale offered. “Come, have a seat, you had quite the fall there.” 

Malcolm frowned. “No, I’m fine.” 

“Coffee, then? I hear that’s popular in America nowadays.” 

Aziraphale lead him to the couch and put on a kettle anyway. Malcolm allowed himself to be lead, examining the bookshop in between analyzing Aziraphale. He must be a cop of some sort, Aziraphale recognized the training. Might as well let him look and reassure himself that he’s in a safe place. Aziraphale performed a small miracle to make his bookshop feel particularly safe just to work through the barriers around the man’s psych. He was in certain need of a guardian angel. 

“No, I’m fine, really,” Malcolm insisted. 

Aziraphale tsked. “If you insist. Just give me a moment to pour myself a cup.”

He could have miracled up a perfect cup of tea up to his standards, but he figured puttering around for a few extra minutes will appear more natural to the boy. Malcolm was very suspicious of him, it wouldn’t do any good to stack the odds against himself. 

Finally, Aziraphale settled in his armchair and gingerly sipped at his steaming cup. 

“Now,” He said. “How did you end up here, dear boy?” 

Malcolm was staring oddly somewhere back in his shop before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. His hands shook in his lap and he tried to calm them by gripping the seams of his pants. 

“Uh,” He began eloquently. “Are you a demon too, Mr. Fell?” 

Aziraphale blinked. “What makes you think that?” 

“Well, I just seemed to teleport into your bookstore,” Malcolm listed. “And you have a runic circle on your floor. That’s glowing.”

Aziraphale spun to look. He had forgotten to cover that up after the boy fell through. 

“Ah, not quite. It’s more angelic, really—“ then the rest of Malcolm’s sentence caught up to him. “Did you say ‘too’?” 

Malcolm nodded. “I was visiting my—a prisoner, to question him, and a guy claiming to be a demon appeared inside the cell. He looked like a goth hipster, but he had these weird eyes—“

“Like snakes?” Aziraphale suggested, a pit of dread beading in his stomach. 

Malcolm nodded. “I may have insulted him. And I guess he sent me here for it. But…” He looked around warily. “I’m not sure why.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no. Crowley can’t send humans, or himself, to other planes of existence.”

“So you know him?” Malcolm asked. Then added, “Wait,  _ what? _ ”

Aziraphale stood and began pacing, hands wringing in front of him. “Yes, you were correct that he was a demon. In fact, he’s the Serpent of Eden, though he goes by Crowley nowadays.”

“He mentioned that,” Malcolm noted dimly. 

“But he has no interest in sending humans across planes of existence, nor the ability to do so,” Aziraphale said. “What brought him to your world, and your to ours, I wonder?” 

“Planes of existence?” Malcolm asked. “So I didn’t just teleport to…?” He gestured vaguely to beyond the shop’s front doors. 

“Soho, London,” Aziraphale answered the unspoken question. “And you didn’t just teleport across the pond, no. Otherwise I’d be able to feel Crowley’s aura.”

“So you are a demon?” Malcolm asked. He didn’t seem entirely fazed by this. 

“On the contrary,” Aziraphale said. He fluffed in his wings where they were tucked away, emitting a faint glow around his corporation. “I’m an angel. A Principality, to be precise.”

Malcolm’s jaw dropped and he didn’t respond for a few long minutes. Aziraphale was worried he’d faint. He dimmed the glow and carefully approached him. 

“Sorry to startle you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, his eyebrows pinched in concern. He miracled his forgotten teacup in his hand and held it up. “Here, take small sips.” 

Malcolm took it distantly, his hands shaking so badly that hot tea spilled over the side. He seemed to come back to himself as it burned his hand. He muttered a curse as the tea cup shattered on the ground. 

“Sorry,” Malcolm mumbled. 

“No worries.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers as the tea cup went back to its proper shape. He set it carefully aside. 

“That’s what the demon did,” Malcolm said, mimicking a snap motion. “Knocked the guard out.”

“Yes, well, we have similar abilities,” Aziraphale said. “But I must go find him. And take you home, of course. Oh, he’ll be so upset over his Bentley…” 

“Are you two enemies? Because it doesn’t seem like you hate him,” Malcolm said. He was very good at regaining his calm - or hiding his anxieties, as Aziraphale suspected. 

Aziraphale smiled fondly. “I used to believe we were, but he’s really the only friend I have since the Garden.” He approached the runic circle which was indeed still glowing, but not the familiar light above from Heaven. This was something else altogether. “Come here, Malcolm. I use this circle to communicate with Heaven, but it seems like it picked up something else.” 

As Malcolm approached cautiously, Aziraphale inspected the odd glow. It was not like the pristine white of Heaven, but closer to a grey. Certainly darker than before, but the altered runes don’t suggest a connection to Hell. 

Curious, Aziraphale placed a hand against the edge of the circle, testing the other side without the risk of discorporating again. Instantly, he felt Crowley’s aura, so familiar and so filled with love that it made him smile. 

“This must lead to your world,” Aziraphale said. “And Crowley is there. I’ll have to come with you and make sure he’s safe.” 

Something in Malcolm’s expression flinched at that, but Aziraphale didn’t think too much about it. 

“So, just walk in?” Malcolm asked. 

“I would think so,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll go first. A portal like this can only discorporate me, but it could do more damage to you. If I disappear, rather than explode like last time--” Malcolm gave him an incredulous look, which he ignored, “--it should be safe for you.” 

“Uh--” Malcolm tried, but Aziraphale already stepped forward. 

It wasn’t the same feeling of being beamed up to Heaven. First, he didn’t discorporate. Second, all he saw was a changing tunnel of light, until something caught him like a fishing hook and pulled him to his feet. 

He came to standing in a prison cell. Not what he expected, but he also didn’t expect to see the room completely trashed. Books ripped and tossed, the bedding a mess, and deep scratch marks against the concrete walls. A tether connected to the wall hung loosely on the ground.

And even worse, a rather large puddle of blood, and in the center, Crowley’s empty corpse, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

“Oh,” He said, softly. “Crowley…!” 

He knelt beside what remained, and was only thankful that it was just his corporation. However, it seemed like Crowley died in pain; long, deep scratches dug into his throat and chest, tearing his shirt and precious jacket, from the demon’s own claws. One of the worst discorporations Aziraphale has seen yet. Mournfully, Aziraphale ran a hand down his face to shut the corporation’s eyes. 

The door to cell suddenly flung open with a  _ bang!.  _ Aziraphale stood up, spotting a security guard with his gun aimed at him in one hand. 

“ _ Don’t move! _ ” 

Aziraphale put his hands up. “I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding, if you’ll just--” He lifted his hand to summon another minor miracle, but before he could, the guard’s other hand released a taser. 

Aziraphale felt painful shocks paralyze him, preventing him from summoning any divine powers. He lost control of his senses, his movements, everything.

Then he just saw darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm's first instinct in this weird, strange world where angels exist is to find a computer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk when the next chapter will be out, writing inspo is coming and going, but enjoy what i have for this ridiculous crossover so far lol

Malcolm did not follow Aziraphale through. 

At least, not right away. With what limited time he had, he explored the bookshop. And tried to keep from freaking out. 

All the logical rules about the world that he believed in had just crumbled around him like fragile scaffolding. First, a demon that both him and his sociopathic father could see. Second, he disappeared into thin air while reaming said demon for being awful at his job, and third, he fell into a bookshop run by an angel that wears the face of his father. 

Malcolm believed he was good at reading people. He read that the man who claimed to be an angel was telling the full and unclouded truth, and at the same time held no ulterior motives. He was nervous, but it wasn’t about lying - it was all about that demon. 

Because he was so good at reading people, Malcolm saw that the demon - Mr. Fell called him ‘Crowley’ - was trying to bullshit his way out of a mess. He pulled the ‘scary demon’ card that almost had Malcolm fooled, simply because it tilted his whole worldview that he didn’t look close enough right away. Crowley was  _ scared _ . 

Well. It was time to see if Mr. Fell was telling the truth. 

His phone had no service - makes sense, if he’s truly in London right now. And the bookshop had no connection. Malcolm took to touring the shelves, which turned out to be a ridiculous feat. He’d pull out one book on astronomy and the one beside it would be about zoology. There was no rhyme or reason that Malcolm could see to it. Frustrated, he abandoned the shelves altogether. 

A very old and very slow computer was found in the backroom. When Malcolm booted it up, it made a Windows start up noise that Malcolm hadn’t heard since the police confiscated his father’s old desktop. 

_ Maybe it ended up here _ , he thought with a bitter laugh. 

He did not miss that dial-up tone, either. 

After a very long thirty minutes waiting for the dinosaur to wake up, Malcolm finally began his research. At this point, it did not occur to him that it might be odd that the angel isn’t back yet. After all, he has no idea how time would work between universes. He’s playing things by ear, as he tends to do. 

As it turns out, the Surgeon doesn’t exist in this world. 

No news reports of the butchered women. No arrests in 1998. No Junkyard Killer. No records at all. 

With further digging, he found that his father’s victims - he has the names burned into his eyelids at this point - were alive. And as far as he could tell, happy. 

However, there was no mention at all of the Whitly Foundation. Even if his mother donated anonymously lately, there would still be a financial footprint from their glory days. But Malcolm’s research found that the Foundation didn’t exist. 

His family didn’t exist. 

He spent a very long time in his thoughts after that. 

Malcolm supposed he had an opportunity here. To leave behind the world where Martin Whitly exists, all the torment that man has put them all through, all the families he tore apart without a sane reason. He could leave it behind for this world, where the Surgeon doesn’t exist, where his victims lead happy lives, and where actual angels run bookshops. 

He had an opportunity here. 

And yet….as much as he would love to have Martin Whitly wiped from existence, he knew he didn’t belong here. There was unfinished business he needed to complete. 

But interestingly, just as he was about to flee to the glowing portal still in the middle of the bookshop, he accidentally solved the case the NYPD had passed on to him. 

All the recent missing persons were  _ here _ . Just appeared on the street, dazed and delirious, admitted into the hospital for claiming they weren’t of this world. It was happening across countries. 

Malcolm had no idea how he was going to explain this to Gil. 

Mr. Fell was still not back and it has been an hour since he disappeared in the portal. Now was a good time to get worried. 

Malcolm was examining the glowing circle and failing to figure out what language the runes were in when the front door of the bookshop burst open. 

Two well-dressed men stormed in with purpose in their steps. The one in front, with strangely inhuman purple eyes, had his jaw set tightly. The one behind him, a portly round man, appeared anxious and worried. Malcolm froze in place, unsure if he should hide or run. How many enemies would an angel have?

“Aziraphale!” The purple-eyed one demanded, then spotted Malcolm. He pointed to him. “You, human. Have you seen the owner of this establishment?” 

“Uh,” Malcolm said. He gestured to the glowing circle. “He went in there.” 

The maybe-man looked to his lackey. “Sandalphon.” 

Sandalphon nodded and hurried over the circle, kneeling to inspect it. The name rung a bell, partially. At least it convinced Malcolm that these men were indeed biblical.

The purple-eyed man(?) approached Malcolm with a thoughtful expression. Maybe those eyes were supposed to tell him who this was supposed to be, but Malcolm wasn’t well versed in religion. He knew the basics, and that’s all he cared to know. 

“You…” The man wagged a finger in the air as he inspected Malcolm. “You’re one of the lost souls, aren’t you?” 

Malcolm could make an educated guess and say that he probably was. But he grew up with a healthy dose of paranoia that hasn’t failed him yet. “The what?” 

The man laughed, but it was a weak, amused-by-your-incompetence laugh. Malcolm heard it enough from his prior superiors. 

“Of course,” The man said. He slowly spun on his heel and looked around the empty bookshop. He added to himself, “But why send you to him…?” 

“Gabriel.” Sandalphon stood up. “It does appear this portal leads to the other universe.” 

_ Gabriel _ . That’s an Archangel, isn’t it? The one who spoke to Mary? Malcolm suddenly felt much more intimidated than before. 

Gabriel stood next to Sandalphon and examined the portal himself. He let a hand drift over the glowing runes, watching as his hand disappeared. He pulled back with a satisfied smile and turned to Malcolm. 

“Let’s go find your Guardian Angel,” Gabriel said, in a sarcastic tone that suggests he finds the notion ridiculous. 

But just as Malcolm thought that, he felt a haze fall over his mind. His thoughts faded into the background as he found his will in someone else’s control. His feet shuffled forward towards the circle, and even though there was some warning blaring in the back of his mind, he couldn’t hear exactly what it said. 

So, he stepped on the glowing runes and disappeared. 


End file.
